Sunday, May 6, 2012

Sunday

Instead of writing a poem, I paddled a kayak across the chilly waters of Lake Washington on a perfect Sunday sunny afternoon. Two otters, two eagles, one blue heron, one red-winged blackbird, three yachts, one speedboat and everywhere people onshore: angling, setting out picnic dinners, bicycling, jogging, skate-boarding, tossing stones into the water, tossing sticks for dogs.

I was particularly struck by the collision of nature and the urban world. Overhead, crows harassed the omnipresent eagles, and on the surface of the lake, my companion and I plucked empty plastic bottles — apparently flung by wealthy weekend boaters — from the water.

Drifting in shallows, last year's lily pads hunkered like ghost flowers below the surface, brown and mucky. A single fish leapt and skittered across the water in front of me. Salmon? Trout? Bass? All is mystery beneath my boat.

The way back was heads-down into a breeze, my bow pulling to the right, onto deep and open water. I pulled and pulled on the right to turn to the left, again and again. Thought of the pork slow-cooking in the oven at home, rubbed with salt and cumin and cinnamon and chili powder. Thought of the corn bread, half-prepped, ready for eggs, milk, butter.

Nearing shore, we manoeuvered our slim crafts to beach side-by-side, hoping to avoid last summer's dousing arrival, the spilling-out of each of us into the lake. And success! Legs unfurled, stretched to regain a flow of blood, we stepped onto land with not a drop of water where it didn't belong. Heaved the kayaks to the roof of the car, strapped and buckled-down each one, and paddles & skirts & life-vests tossed in the back.

"What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark. . . . "—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse"Like other poets, I am often asked if I have a spiritual practice. Yes, writing is my spiritual practice."— Alicia Ostriker

"The trick, Gloria thought as she experienced near-whiplash at the revelation, was to keep the level of believing in magic constant."—Marylinn Kelly

"Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me."—Sigmund Freud

"...and following the wrong god home we may miss our star."—William Stafford

"I am in love with the world.""—Maurice Sendak

“I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.” —Rainier Maria Rilke"Writing means revealing oneself to excess."--Franz Kafka"There isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails. " --Raymond Carver"Someone I loved once gave mea box full of darkness.It took me years to understandthat this, too, was a gift. "--Mary Oliver"In the middle of the journey of our lifeI found myself in a dark wood,For I had lost the right path.And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars." --Dante Alighieri